


We're Writing a Tragedy Disguised as a Romance

by Lavendermagik



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Post Season 9, Softer Version of Crowley, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavendermagik/pseuds/Lavendermagik
Summary: (New Summary 1/24/21)Crowley is smitten. He's also a demon. So it doesn't always go particularly well.
Relationships: Crowley (Supernatural)/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 39





	1. He that is strucken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

You knew he was coming. You might have known before he did. You were waiting for him at your kitchen table, a tumbler of scotch and a cup of tea laid out at the seat across from you.

“Expecting company?” His voice was mild, almost amused.

You didn’t move from your seat. “I’m a seer. And you wanted to be seen.”

“You’ve got me there.” He lowered himself into his designated spot much more gracefully than should be allowed. 

“So the question remains: what business could the King of Hell possibly have with me?”

“Shouldn’t you know?” Cowley smirked.

“If my foresight were perfect, do you think I would have put out both scotch and tea?”

“What can you see?” He unbuttoned his suit coat and folded his hands on his lap, for all appearances completely at ease.

You paused, trying to get a read on him, but he just watched you patiently. “I saw you here. I couldn’t see your reasons, but I didn’t feel any harmful intent.

“Hmm…” he mused, lifting the tumbler to his nose and taking a whiff. His eyebrows rose and he took a sip, then pursed his lips and nodded, apparently surprised but approving of its quality. “I have a dilemma.”

You watched him take another sip and set the tumbler back down.

He took your silence as permission to expound. “Demons don’t have what you'd call a wide emotional range. Mostly anger, rage, hatred, some pleasure but mostly at the pain of others, you know.”

You tilted your head in acknowledgement.

“Well, my encounter with human blood opened me up to quite a few new experiences – broadened my spectrum, you might say.”

_I deserve to be loved! I just want to be loved._

“I remember.” 

“Of course you do,” he murmured. You couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, resigned, or something else entirely. “The effects of the blood only last as long as it's in the system,” he continued in his normal tone, “so all those pesky side effects are behind me now.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Feelings.” He wrinkled his nose. “Bloody inconvenient, those.”

“So you're emotionally stunted again, just like you prefer. What's the problem?”

“The problem is the memories linger.” At this point he paused, hand loosely around his glass on the table and eyes intensely focused on your own. “I am no longer capable of feeling love, but I remember how it felt.”

_Do you think… if I wasn’t this… if I was better… would you love me? Could you ever love a thing like me? Will you give me the chance to earn your love? Please?_

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply through your nose, trying to ignore how you could still feel his burning gaze. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I'd rather hoped you might consent to return with me.”

Your eyes shot back open. “You want me to join you in hell?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. The place is horrid – I would never take you there. I have various bases of operation topside that should suffice.”

Well, that was good. If any part of this conversation could be considered good. At least he didn’t want to trap you in hell.

“What are all the hellions going to think about you keeping a human?”

“Officially, you will be using your abilities in my employ in exchange for protection. Unofficially, I couldn’t care less what those bottom feeders think.”

You sat, unmoving and unspeaking, for a stretch of time, and found yourself reminded that Crowley was one of the few who could meet your regular silent staring with composure. Eventually, you asked, “What's your endgame here?”

“I would like reopen the discussion on my request. You said we could address it after Moose finished his pesky trials.”

“That was when I thought you'd be…” You dropped your eyes to the table, then brought them right back to his. “It's different now. You can’t ask me to fall in love with someone who's incapable of loving me back.”

Now he paused, and when he did speak, his voice was softer. “I know you feel something for me – if not you would have greeted me with a devil's trap instead of refreshments. And I believe I may be… evolving. I cannot say for sure just what I might be capable of.”

“That's a pretty big maybe on which to hang my immortal soul.”

“I’m not asking you to wager your soul.”

“Do you really think someone who fell in love with the King of Hell would be allowed into heaven?”

“You won’t have to worry about that. I'll take care of you.”

“You're still asking me to risk my future on the off chance you might someday learn to love me back, that you won’t lose interest or move on.”

“I vow that I will dedicate myself to making you happy, giving you whatever your heart desires, keeping you safe and well cared for to the end of your days and beyond. At its core, isn’t that what love is?”

You filled your lungs until they couldn’t hold anymore and then let the breath out slowly. “Why now? It's been over a year since the church.”

“I've been… preoccupied. A challenger attempted to dethrone me. I also had a short dalliance with human blood.”

“Dalliance?”

“Some may call it an addiction. I am completely clean now.”

“Why human blood? You didn’t seem to like it when Sam was injecting you.”

“I was attempting to reclaim a certain aspect of what I had experienced in that church. As it turns out, the whole venture was fruitless without your participation.”

“Are you going to fall off the wagon again because of me?”

“No, I believe that is a shortcut not worth taking. I'd prefer to do this the old-fashioned way.” He paused, seemed to steady himself. “I want more from this second life. I want what I felt that night when you tended my wounds though I was still your enemy. I want... to have someone worth having.”

He seemed so sincere, which was almost more off-putting than it was reassuring. The now uncontested ruler of hell was sitting in your kitchen asking you to love him. Asking you to move in with him. Asking you to give up your life, what little there was to it, and take up position as official court fortune teller. The worst part was you already knew your answer.

“Your minions will not approve.”

“Hell stands to benefit substantially from your abilities, and any who oppose will be made an example. The rest will fall in line easily enough.”

“Or you'll set off a coup that will get us both killed.”

“Let those peons try.” His eyes flashed red before fading back into familiarity.

“I don’t want anything to do with torture. Or killing. Or collecting on deals. I understand hell's function and your place in it, but I won’t be a part of it.”

“Naturally.”

“I have no interest in ruling anything.”

“You may be as involved as you wish.”

“I won’t side with you against the Winchesters. But I also won’t side with them against you. And if they call, I’m still going to answer.”

“That sounds reasonable enough. But I have to say, you sound like you’ve already made your decision.”

“It was made a long time ago. My first vision was of me saying yes to you. I've always assumed I’d be bargaining my soul. I didn’t exactly expect this.”

“That makes two of us. Although I can’t say I’m entirely displeased with the turn of events.”

“I guess we'll see.” You watched him as he smiled enigmatically. “So what now?”

“Now you pack a bag. That is, if you have anything worth taking with you. Rest assured I will provide everything you could possibly want.”

“Let’s get this straight – I’m not looking to be kept. Substituting things for love isn’t going to work for me.”

“Noted.”

You wished you felt as calm as he appeared. “There's nothing here that's especially important. I’m already wearing my favorite jeans.”

He tilted his head to peer around the table at your legs, making a face very near the one from his encounter with the scotch – approving and appreciative. He stood as fluidly as he'd sat and then held out a hand to you. “Shall we?”

This was your chance to back out and say no. Your last exit, the single remaining parachute, your final answer. You didn’t doubt that if you changed your mind, he would leave it. Crowley wasn’t one for begging or sticking around when he felt foolish. And while he may not currently love you, he did respect you on some level.

But you knew as surely now as you did when the vision had first come to you three days after your eighth birthday. Come hell or high water (emphasis on the hell), you knew where you belonged.

His palm was warm against yours, his expression uncharacteristically soft. You didn’t mind as your kitchen faded around you to be replaced with where Crowley would choose to stash you. The house would sit empty and undisturbed. It would still be there if and when you needed it.

But if the grip on your hand was anything to go by, you wouldn't be needing it any time soon.


	2. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Prostitution for souls. A new angle, sure, but where was the finesse? Whatever happened to putting in the work, finding the poor sods at the very ends of their ropes and twisting them up until they were begging to bargain away their eternity for a paltry ten years? This was just… cheap.

“We’ll have all available operatives searching the city. We’ll find that witch before the day is out.”

Crowley raised a hand to silence the fool in the safety vest. “I have a better idea.”

Gerald appeared taken aback but quietly complied to the unspoken order to follow, trailing through increasingly less crowded halls until they came to one with no demon activity whatsoever. Crowley knocked on your door and entered to find you leaning against the arm of your couch with a book propped up on your legs. He filed the image of you curled up safe in his kingdom for later, and greeted your questioning expression with, “Hello, darling. Ready to start earning your keep?”

Your face fell into a frown. He simply smiled, head tilting just a little. He heard your sigh, quiet though it was, as your feet dropped to the floor and you rose stiffly enough to show you’d been in that position a bit too long. When your hand met his, he pulled you forward to whisper into your cheek bone, “Appearances, love.”

The three of you materialized inside the recently shut down brothel. You eyed the various depictions of half-naked women as you released his hand. “Classy.”

“It got the job done.” Gerald sounded defensive about his former place of employment. Crowley turned with the intention of shooting him a _look_ but found the demon’s eyes already locked on your unsettlingly blank face and near-unblinking stare. The demon broke first, dropping his gaze, and Crowley smirked.

Your eyes landed on the mess on the floor. “Gross.”

“‘Round about there should be a hex bag. See if you can tell me where we can find its maker.”

You skirted the puddle of black goo and crouched down when you spotted the bag. You picked it up gingerly, letting it rest in the palm of your hand as you stared at it.

“Sir-”

Crowley held up his hand once more and the demon shut his mouth. He watched your pupils expand until very little of your eye color was left. A minute later you stood and dropped the bag, wiping your hands off like it left something distasteful behind. 

You gave him an address for the nicest hotel in the city. Then, with a quick glance towards Gerald, you stepped closer and added, “The Winchesters are heading that way as well.”

“Hear that, Gerald? Best have a Plan B at the ready.” Crowley’s pleased smile collapsed into a frown when he realized Gerald was still present and he was forced to take his eyes off yours to glare at the inept demon. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man finally vanished so Crowley could turn back to you. “Sorry. Good help and all that.”

“You did just send him against the monster’s boogeymen.”

“He should be grateful for the heads up. At least now he knows better than to go in himself.”

The brothel was replaced with your apartment space, tea set out on the small table by your kitchenette. You sat down and began spreading cream on a scone. “Your subjects don’t much care for me.”

He took the seat across from you to serve the tea. “And as I said before, I don’t care what they think. Especially if you continue to be as helpful as you were today. Can you imagine if I had to wait on this squalling bunch of children to find the witch on their own?”

You were extremely skilled at keeping your expression schooled, but he still managed to spot the slight dip in your brow. He set the teapot down and watched carefully as you took a bite. “What’s the matter?”

You paused to swallow, and finally met his gaze. “It’s… harder here. I think it’s all the demonic energy. That much power can scramble things. I had the same problem in heaven. If Metatron hadn’t forced my visions-”

“What do you mean by scrambled?” He’d grown to dislike hearing about your time in captivity, even if he’d once held you captive himself. Still, he found it immeasurably impressive that you’d more than once managed to talk yourself out of a tight spot.

“I haven’t had an unanchored vision since I got here. I get feelings sometimes, impressions, but nothing concrete.” You took a deep breath and ran a finger over the delicate filigree of your teacup. “It’s not a big deal. I just have to practice more. It’s what I have to do every time something gets too strong for me to see.”

His eyes narrowed as you scratched at your arm. “And yet you’re still connected to Squirrel?”

You looked down at where your nails rested and moved your hand back to the table. “Not really. I haven’t been able to see Dean since he got the Mark.”

“There’s no need to keep things from me-”

“I’m not.” You cut him off, and he had to marvel at this human woman who would unflinchingly interrupt the King of Hell. “I can see around him, sort of. I knew he and Sam are going to be at the hotel because the Mark gives off this unnerving, empty feeling. But I can’t really see him, not even using something to focus with.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t tell me you still have that filthy sock.”

One side of you mouth curled just a little – the closest you ever came to smiling, in his experience. “At least I only asked you for a tie.”

“May I ask you something?” He waited until you tilted your head in consent and savored the fullness of your attention. “I hate to sound like the type of man who asks this question, but why is it you so rarely smile?”

He'd brought the subject up before, though he’d been much less polite then. He’d been chained to a chair so Sam could pump him full of human blood, so at the time his, “Why so serious, love?” had merely been to get a rise out of you. And your response had been as disappointingly stoic as ever. 

Fortunately, you didn’t seem offended but merely thoughtful, perhaps resigned. Though he still regretted asking, because your eyes no longer held his, but stayed stubbornly fixed on your cup. “I didn’t understand my visions when I was younger, so I would react intensely and with no effort to hide it. I would cry and laugh and carry on about people I may or may not know. I must have gotten my abilities from my father’s side, because my mother thought I had an aggressively overactive imagination. Once I had a complete meltdown in a grocery store because I picked up a penny and saw the man who’d dropped it die violently. It was too much for my mother to handle. She told me I was embarrassing her and to stop being so emotional. So I did.”

“I must say, your mother is lucky her soul doesn’t reside in my domain.”

“That would be true regardless, but considering the current state of heaven, I’m not so sure she’s lucky to be there either.” You sat back, seemingly unbothered, but you were always so hard to read completely. “It wasn’t her fault. She was a cold woman by nature and never really knew my father. She had absolutely no idea what to do with me. It was actually good advice – controlling my emotions helps control the visions.”

“Helps with demons, too. They’re not used to being faced without any reaction. You unnerve them – that’s why they don’t like you.”

“They don’t like me because I’m a human taking up too much of your attention.”

“They will learn, because I have no intention of stopping.” He felt quite pleased with himself when that half smile reappeared, and he leaned back in his chair as well. “Now-”

Of course, Gerald chose that moment to reappear. Annoyed at both the interruption and the impropriety of this filth encroaching on your space, he barked out, “Oi! Did you never learn to knock? Were you raised in a barn?”

The other man took a step back, previous enthusiasm waning at the reprimand. “I… apologize… sire.”

Crowley would have continued, except you stood and noisily began to clear the table, despite knowing that he could merely will everything away. You caught his eye, and he realized he needed to reign himself back in. He cleared his throat and stood. “Yes, well, don’t let it happen again. Now what is it?”

“We have the witch, sir.”

“Good.” Both stood in silence, which Crowley quickly broke. “What, are you waiting for a gold star? Get out. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Gerald turned and walked swiftly from the room, shutting the door gently behind him. You spoke without looking up from your dish washing. “You’re going to start rumors.”

“Rumors have already started. Now it’s just a question of what those gossipy hens will say next.” He closed the distance between you, positioning himself at your side so he could see your face. “I have to go take care of this.”

He saw your pupils grow and shrink in the span of a few seconds. When all you did was exhale slowly, he prompted, “Nothing?”

“Next to.” You paused, leaving your soapy hands in the sink but turning slightly to face him. “Just a bad feeling. Be careful.”

“It’s a single witch. I’d let Gerard take care of her if I didn’t need to make a point.”

You returned to your dishes, and he let out a sigh. He wished he’d had more time – this conversation, though short, had felt like a step in the right direction. You trusted him enough to speak of such personal things, and he wanted to see how far that would extend. He considered touching you but didn’t want to push what already felt fragile. Instead, he tried to make his tone soothing, like a caress in itself. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“If I didn’t worry about you, what we’re doing here would be pointless.” 

Interesting. He would have to give that more consideration. For the moment, his duties beckoned.

As he marched through the halls to the dungeon, mostly ignoring Gerald’s babbling, he thought back to your warning and wondered if he shouldn’t have been so dismissive. You were only trying to be helpful, just as he’d requested. Still, what kind of trouble could one measly witch cause him?


	3. You have witchcraft in your lips.

“I need you to confirm something for me.”

“What?”

He seemed unsettled, which in itself was concerning. His normal unflappable confidence had been replaced with lines by his eyes and an unusual pallor to his damp skin. “Whether or not a mutiny awaits me.”

“Have you heard rumors?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why-” 

“Please.” He held out his hand, and though suspicious, you accepted. A moment later you let go, blinking as your eyes refocused on his face. “Well?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Because there is nothing to see, or because you’re still having trouble with all the demonic energy?”

You shrugged. “Could be your energy. You’re too strong to see clearly a lot of the time. But I think this time there’s nothing to see.” He turned, scrubbed a hand down his mouth, and didn’t look any more relieved. “Why do you think a mutiny is in the works?”

“I saw it.” He glanced back when you remained silent for some time to find you simply staring. 

“You've never said you get visions.” There was no accusation in the words, nor any emotion at all. Just the same level tone as always.

“I don’t, generally.”

“Then how do you know that’s what this was?”

“What else could it be?”

“Nightmare?”

“I don’t sleep.”

You paused, ran your eyes over the tension in his shoulders. “Where did you have the vision?”

“Throne room.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to see something in there.”

He mulled it over but shook his head quickly. “No, mother is lurking around somewhere. I don’t want her to know about you.”

“This might be the first time I appreciate a boyfriend not wanting to introduce me to his mother.”

Your mouth did something odd as your brow furrowed, and Crowley found himself distracted by his curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

“I just called the King of Hell my boyfriend. It’s weird.”

He felt a smile tilt his lips despite everything. “I could offer a few stronger terms, if you like.”

“No, just getting weirder. Maybe we’re better off without labels.” You watched him huff out a laugh that was more breath than noise. At least he appeared to have relaxed, even a little. “Can I ask why your mother’s still here?”

“You’re the one who said I shouldn’t kill her.”

“Because you deserved to find out why she left you. I didn’t expect you to give her free reign.”

“She doesn’t have free reign. For instance, she is expressly forbidden from entering this wing. ” He sighed, eyes drifting upwards. “I suppose I’m still trying to figure out what to do with the old witch.” You didn’t reply, and so he faced you fully. “What?”

“I don’t think you would have given it this much thought before.”

He gave that a few seconds of consideration. “You may be right. Perhaps I should just kill her.”

“It wasn’t a criticism.”

“No?”

“Only an observation.” You gestured towards the kitchen. “Do you want tea? Scotch?”

“As tempting an offer as that is, I should get back to work.” Still, he looked at the empty kettle resting on the counter with longing. If only he could hide away here and ignore hell’s tedium and perpetual unrest. How a place could be so boring and at the same time so unpredictable he would never be able to explain. “How about dinner tonight? We’ll go somewhere far away from this cesspool. You'll eat, I'll watch.”

“Is that wise?”

“What’s the use of being king if you can’t occasionally abandon all of your responsibilities for the company of a genteel lady?“

“Are you planning to pick one of those up on the way?”

He smiled, felt the worst of his trepidation fade to the background. Surely you would have seen if disaster was imminent. If you weren’t concerned, he wouldn’t be either. At least, not visibly so. He stepped back, bowed his head a little. “Until tonight.”

“I’ll keep watching.”

“You’re so good to me.”

He did return as promised, but all thoughts of dinner had been overrun. He paced almost manically, hands gesticulating as he spoke of spies and betrayal. “I don’t understand,” you said, eyes tracking him. “When you called earlier, you said you had to make a quick stop in Guam before dinner.

“And I did, only to find what I sought already stolen! By Guthrie, no less!”

“Mustache Guthrie?”

“Yes! Then I return to find my mother had stabbed him in self-defense, or so she claims. Says she confronted him about stirring up unrest, and he attacked her. First Gerald, and now this!”

“Brothel Gerald?”

“She identified him as the traitor smuggling souls out of hell. I am surrounded by those who would betray me.” Crowley paused his pacing and focused on you, noted your distinct lack of agreement. “What is it?”

“It’s odd that since she’s arrived, two demons have died for betrayal solely on your mother’s word.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know your mother.”

“Yet you seem to be siding with the demons.”

“I’m not siding with anyone. I’m merely making observations.”

He came to stand in front of you, still surprised and impressed that you let him so close without flinching. “Then what do you suggest I do?”

“I’d tell you be careful, but you don’t like when I say that.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, love. I appreciate your concern for me.” He caught hold of your hand and ran his thumb over your knuckles. “But you don’t have to worry. I can take care of my mother.”

“Did you meet with Sam and Dean today?” you asked, and he had to take a second to recalibrate. Sometimes it was hard to keep up with your conversational tracks when your expression never shifted.

“I did.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? How did you know?”

“I saw it. Or I thought I did. It was… odd.”

“Odd how?”

Your eyes dropped to where his hand still held yours. “It didn’t feel as much like the vision came to me as I was dragged along with it. Felt more like a shock than it normally does.”

“Is this what happens when your powers progress?”

“Not historically.” You met his gaze again. “You went to get the First Blade.”

“Yes. The Winchesters have some cockamamie plan to remove the Mark.”

“Will it work?”

“Hard to say. Their plans usually go through several iterations before they find something that works, and half the time they trigger an apocalypse along the way.”

“That’s accurate.”

He smiled briefly, but it faded just as quickly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to reschedule dinner. I need to figure out how to calm the turmoil in my courts.”

You nodded, and he squeezed your hand before letting go and heading for the doors. With his hand on the knob, he paused and turned back to look at you. “Did you ever have one of those cutesy identifiers for me? Charming Crowley? Devastatingly handsome Crowley?”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, but really it was the look in your eye that made his heart do something funny. Before he had time to sous that out, you said, “I never needed one. There’s lots of demons, but only one king.”


	4. Love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.

“What do we have here?”

You froze, paintbrush poised over the canvas. When you’d heard the door open, you hadn’t bothered to stop and look. Only one person ever came to this side of the building, let alone into your rooms. But the accent was wrong, and with a fairly good guess at whom it belonged to, you weren’t quite sure what to do about it.

“What’s the matter, dear? Cat got your tongue?”

You turned to face the woman in her elegant gown and extravagant eye makeup, all too aware of your own stained smock and messy, utilitarian hairdo. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“I can be anywhere I please. I am, after all, the queen mother.”

“Mother, maybe. Queen is a bit ambitious.”

She made a high noise in the back of her throat, obviously offended, and stalked toward you slowly. Like a predator. “And who are you? You’re no demon. I don’t sense any magic in you. Are you a human? What on earth could my son possibly want with the likes of you?”

As if in answer, your pupils surged outward, and Rowena felt a pulse of energy, so like her own magic but not quite the same. “Oh no, dearie, we'll have none of that.”

She pressed her hand to your forehead and mumbled a few Latin words. The effect was immediate – you let out a pained cry and collapsed, shaking, headed for the floor if not for her arms holding you upright. Crowley burst through the door, brow pinched with concern. “What happened?”

“I don't know!” Rowena exclaimed, voice loud and an octave above normal. “I was passing by when I heard a noise and came in to find her having a fit!”

He was already taking you from her arms, trying to maintain his powerful kingly composure and not quite succeeding. This was compelling information indeed. “I told you this part of the facility was off limits.”

“Well it's not my fault the place is so big and confusing that I got turned around. And it's a good thing I did, too, or who knows what might have befallen the poor girl. You never mentioned having a lover.”

“Get out.”

No denial. Interesting. “Now that kind of tone is completely unnecessary-”

“Out!”

She made that high, offended noise again and swept from the room. He hardly noticed, because you were still seizing violently in his arms. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t… I can’t see. I can’t see.” Your pupils were pinpricks, and red began to color the whites of your eyes as blood vessels burst. “It’s…”

The rest of your sentence devolved into a scream of pain as you curled inward again, so sharply that he almost lost his grip. Once again you repeated, “I can’t see!” though now it sounded more like a sob.

“Then stop bloody trying! Let it go! Just let go!”

You sucked in a gasp that sounded excruciating and went absolutely limp. For the span of five seconds, he was sure you had died. Then you gasped again, and he felt your fingers curl into the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“That’s it, darling, that’s it.” He half led, half carried you to your couch and sat so he could cradle you to him. “Just breathe.”

Eventually, you managed to calm down and sat up to wipe at your damp face, looking embarrassed. Without comment, he handed you a dark handkerchief and said, “Can you tell me what happened?”

Your hand dropped from blotting at your nose, handkerchief crushed in your fist. “I… I don’t know.”

Your eyes were still bloodshot, so he reached over and pressed two fingers to your temple. “Was it my mother’s doing?”

“Your mother?” You blinked at him, eyes restored and brow furrowed. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“She was here when I arrived. I assumed she’d done something terrible.”

“No, I don’t think it was her.” You turned your stare to a stain on the far wall. “I don’t remember her being here at all.”

“She claims to have been passing by when she heard a noise. She is a witch both old and powerful – her mere proximity may have triggered something.”

You pupils flared for just a moment, and then you let out a small cry and clutched at your head. He sat up straighter, hands hovering. “She must be too strong. I can’t see her, and it hurts to try.”

“Then don’t try.”

“I’m supposed to be keeping watch of things.”

“Not everything. Keep an eye on what you can and let me worry about my mother.” 

You nodded, eyes still closed as you massaged your temples, and he relaxed minutely. But then your hands dropped to your lap and you stared straight ahead again. “Maybe I should stay somewhere else for a while.”

He felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest and fought to keep his tone level. “You know you are free to leave at your leisure.”

Of course, you picked up on it anyway, and turned your head to look at him. “But?”

“But,” he sighed and reached for your hand, “I prefer having you near me so I can make sure you're safe and well cared for. You are rubbish at caring for yourself, love. Besides, if the Winchesters have ready access to you, I'm sure you’ll be pulled into whatever world-ending scheme they've got going this week.”

“Have you heard from them since they had you get the First Blade?”

“Not a peep. I can only assume they’re off causing someone else trouble at the moment.” He watched you nod and drop your gaze to his hand holding yours. “I will ensure she never comes near this wing again. And if she continues to cause you pain, I’ll kill her myself.”

“You shouldn’t make threats you have no intention of keeping.”

His lips pursed with his indignation. “I beg your pardon.”

“If you wanted to kill her you would have. But you like having her around.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He sighed into your blank expression and shifted his hold. “Even if I did find merit in her continued existence, I assure you I like having you around more. I will gladly put a blade through my mother’s shriveled, black heart on your behalf.”

“There's a Hallmark card you're not likely to find.” He felt something in him release at the sight of your half smile. “Don’t, though. I don’t want to be the reason you kill your mother. There’s enough space for both of us.”

He smiled and raised your hand to press his lips to the back. You frowned, and his first thought was he’d gone too far. But instead of pulling away, you used your free hand to pinch at his sleeve and said, “I got paint on your suit.”

He followed your gaze to find several streaks of gray, dark enough to hardly be noticeable against the fabric. “Not to worry, love. I have plenty.”

“I like this one.”

The sentence was so simple, yet it caused a strange warmth to bloom somewhere near his stomach. Unsure quite yet what to do with that feeling, he turned his attention to your nearby canvas. “What have you been working on?”

“I’m not sure. I thought painting would give me some clarity, but I still have no idea what I’m supposed to see.”

Different shades of gray swirled without a discernable pattern, dark and light twisting together in an ominous display of chaos. “Looks like a storm, darling.”

“Yes,” you agreed, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around his. “But for who?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grammatical me wants the last line to say for whom, but natural dialogue me says that's not how normal people talk. And the two shall always be in constant conflict until we are all fairy tales in books written by rabbits. ( _The Last Unicorn_ , Peter S. Beagle)


	5. For to be wise and love exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above.

“What are you doing out?”

“Following a feeling.” You approached where he stood, hunched over a table for no particular reason besides it was there. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

You didn’t say anything until he gave into the pressure of your gaze and turned to face you fully. Then, with no emotion but absolutely surety, you stated, “They didn’t give you back the First Blade.”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and attempted to swallow his temper. “How did you know about that?” 

Silence.

He opened his eyes to find yours staring back, as you always did when you felt the answer too obvious to waste words on. He sighed again. “Been practicing, have you?”

“I didn’t call the vision. Cain’s death must have been too big for even me to miss.” Another beat of silence passed before you added, “You could have told me.”

“I was afraid you would insist on coming with me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because of the insufferable fondness you have for those two lumbering idiots.” His anger was seeping through the cracks of his oppressive hold, and he fought to reign it back in. Demonic underlings, the Winchesters, and his mother were one thing, but he would not snap at you.

“I don’t want anything to do with the First Blade or the Mark. I just want you to tell me when you’re about to do something dangerous.” 

He thought back to the conversation you’d had when his mother first arrived, before he’d known the identity of the witch they’d captured. “So you can worry?”

“I am quite good at it.” Your eyes trickled over him, and he knew you were seeing the tension he still carried in his shoulders. “Would you feel better if I left you alone for a while?” 

“No.” He reached for your arm, even though you’d made no move to leave. From anyone else, that statement would have felt passive aggressive. From you, it was more like an honest offer. “My apologies, love. I have had a truly awful day.”

“Just the Winchesters, or was your mother involved as well?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not supposed to be looking for my mother.”

“That was a guess. Not even a clever one. A lot of your bad days have to do with your mother.” Your attention fell to the discarded luggage on the floor. “And demons don’t usually pack bags.”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “My mother sees weakness in me.” He reached for his tumbler of scotch, poured before your appearance and abandoned since, and when you didn’t offer a response, continued, “The worst part is she’s right. I allow the Winchesters to bully me into doing their bidding. I let the demons’ incessant mewling go unpunished. I spend far too much time…”

“With me?” you finished, and he didn’t have a convincing denial at the ready. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No! How many times do I have to say that I want you here?” His tone was sharper than any he’d usually employ with you despite his best efforts, and he immediately regretted letting his frustrations get the better of him. Your arm still dangled from his hold on your wrist, and he ran his thumb over your pulse apologetically. When he spoke again, he kept his voice much softer. “Truth is you are a weakness, possibly my most dangerous, but one I will embrace gladly.” His grip tightened, and he took a step closer. “But I can’t let them _see_ it. My mother is bad enough, but if I lose my hold over the rest of the court, that will spell trouble for the both of us.”

Your fingers wrapped around his tie and gave a sharp yank. “Then use me.”

Something like a shock when through is whole body. “Pardon?”

“You haven’t asked me for a vision in weeks.”

“That’s-”

“I know you’re worried after last time. But they’re going to start questioning why I’m here again. Bring me to court. Boss me around. Make me work, and don’t let me off easy if I don’t give you what you ask for.”

He chuckled, but it was a bit more breathless than he expected. “I see the point you’re trying to make, but with talk like that you’re giving me ideas of an entirely different nature.”

The corner of your lips curled, and you rapped your knuckles against his chest. “Our relationship won’t matter as long as it appears transactional. They don’t need to know about the rest.”

His free hand covered yours as his expression turned serious. “If you are going to appear in court, I won’t be afforded any slip ups. I may have to get harsh with you. I don’t want to give you cause for doubting me.”

“I won’t.” The words were sure in ways he wished he felt. “As long as the rest is still there behind closed doors, I can make it through your act in the throne room.”

“Then we’ll give it a go.” He watched closely for any sign of second thoughts and saw none. “But only if you promise to tell me if it gets to be too much.”

You nodded. He raised his hand from yours to card his fingers through your hair and scrutinized your face. His usual confidence was so much harder to conjure when your expression never gave anything away. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip almost absently as he decided that right now you looked expectant, and he hoped you expected the same thing he did. And then he closed the distance and kissed you.

You didn’t jerk back or slap him. In fact, you responded rather agreeably, and he found this quite encouraging. His fingers curled in your hair, and his other hand released your wrist to wrap around your waist and pull you forward so he could simultaneously feel as much of you as possible. He was half on his way to moving onto something completely inappropriate for such a public location when he realized exactly what he was considering and pulled back. He cleared his throat and nervously ran his eyes over your face again, which now had the most endearing little flush right along your cheekbones. And yet, he couldn’t get a solid read on your feelings, so just to be safe he said, “My apologies. Again.”

“What for?”

“I got rather, ah, carried away. I’ve been trying to play the gentleman, and I’m afraid slipped a little there.”

“Who asked you to?”

“Pardon?”

You gave his tie another sharp tug and slowly replied, “One does not move in with the King of Hell if she doesn’t expect a little loss of control.”

“I see.” But he didn’t, not entirely, not yet, not for certain. “I simply assumed-”

“Don’t.” The short word was enough to give him pause, and then you added, “Ask.”

He hesitated, watched for those infinitesimal shifts in your expression. “Darling… how would you feel about being thoroughly ravished?”

“Favorably.”

“Ah, well…” He cleared his throat, eyes locked on your face and unable to look elsewhere. “Then though I have more than once had a questionable daydream involving you and my throne room, I believe a change of locale is in order.”

The surroundings shifted to the mildly less dismal backdrop of your living room. You gave it nary a glance before your focus was back on him. “Better.”

He smirked, tamping down a feeling that was far too close to giddy, and crushed his mouth to yours once more. He’d solved exactly zero of his problems, yet they all faded away from his mind as he felt your fingers dragging over his scalp. He’d deal with the treacherous Winchesters and his mother’s impending hissy fit another day.

For now, it was time to indulge in his weakness.


	6. Speak low, if you speak love.

“I swear I’m telling the truth!”

“Interesting. Let’s find out for sure, shall we?” Crowley leaned forward as you approached from your designated position off to one side, away from the main action of court proceedings. His lips quirked slightly as the demon currently on trial glanced warily at your offered hand.

“Sir, this really isn’t necessary-”

“I’ll determine what’s necessary. And if you’re, and I use this word ironically, as ‘innocent’ as you so vehemently claim, you have nothing to fear, now do you?”

He could see the fool thinking through his options and realizing he had none. With obvious disgust, the man placed his hand on yours and tilted ever-so-slightly backwards when he chanced a glance at your eyes. One would think at least demons would be accustomed to the spread of black, but apparently there was just enough difference to still be disconcerting.

“He’s not smuggling souls out of hell,” you spoke after a few long seconds, at which point the demon immediately retracted his hand and began to look smug. It didn’t last long. “But he is hoarding them to gain power for himself.”

The demon’s face collapsed into horror, and he turned back to Crowley. “She’s lying! I-”

“Might I suggest,” Crowley cut in with deceptive nonchalance, “that you put down the shovel before you dig your hole any deeper?”

The man clammed up as sweat began to bead near his hairline. He darted a glance at you, like there might be some deliverance there, and Crowley tensed in preparation to turn him to ash. However, he simply took a step back and returned to his pleading. “Your majesty, I was merely trying to find better ways to serve you!”

“Is that so? Well, I have just come up with a very special method.” He straightened and addressed the lingering guards. “Take him to the hellhounds. Tell them daddy has sent a new chew toy.”

As the begging screams faded, Crowley turned his attention to you. You looked back evenly, as if you hadn’t just been instrumental in the painful death of another being. He tried not to let his admiration show too obviously as he asked, “Is that everything?”

“It’s all that was on the schedule.”

“Then I will see you back to your room.” He rose leisurely, thrumming energy buried underneath his polished, detached façade. You made no acknowledgement, but fell into step beside him. He fought the urge to reach out for you, holding off all through the unnaturally long walk through the halls, ignoring the demons that stood at attention and bowed respectfully as he passed. Even their reverence hardly registered around his all-encompassing objective to just make it to privacy. 

The moment the door shut, he was upon you, lips insistent and hands urgent, so much so that he sent you both stumbling into your lightweight kitchen table which rattled against the wall in outrage. You gave into it easily, hands sliding up the buttery-soft sleeves of his suit jacket. 

“Do you have any idea,” he said against your mouth, “how difficult it is to keep to myself when watching you work, seeing you put those insects in their place?”

Your only answer was the smallest hum from the back of your throat. In it, however, he sensed the tiniest bit of distraction. He pulled back by inches to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like seeing what they get up to.”

“Forgive me, but didn’t you _just_ insist on me giving you work to do?”

“I’m not saying I won’t do it. It’s just not my favorite part of the job.”

“What is your favorite part, then?”

“The boss is nice to look at.”

It took him a minute to catch on to your meaning, since you said it in the same flat tone you use to say everything. But then his lips pulled up and he tugged you more firmly against him. “That’s inappropriate for the workplace, love,” he murmured into your neck. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report you to HR.”

“I’m the only human here, so I guess that’s me. I’m letting myself off with a warning.” 

Your voice had gone a little airy, which was simply marvelous. He found a spot closer to your shoulder that made your breath jump before continuing, “If I had my way, you’d never touch any of those disgusting mongrels.”

“Then what good would I be to you?”

“Darling, you are the only thing to do with me that’s good.”

“Untrue.”

“I’m the King of Hell. I don’t do ‘good.’”

He felt your whole body jolt with a snort. “I think we’ve disproven that several times.”

He abandoned your throat to smirk into the amusement tinging your expression. “You know, you have quite the mouth when you choose to use it.”

As if to prove his assertion, you took hold of his face and pulled his lips back to yours. His hand ran down your sides to your hips and then back upwards, fighting with the voluminous material of your oversized sweater. “Why, when I have a tailor on call, must you always wear clothing that is far too large for you?”

“It’s comfortable.” 

His hands finally found skin, and he felt your ribs rise and fall with your sigh. At least he had plenty of room to maneuver once he got there. However, his enjoyment only lasted a few minutes before you murmured a nearly-smothered, “Back up.”

“What’s that?” 

He was admittedly a little hazy and wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. But then you gave the slightest push against his chest and repeated, “Back.”

And so he did, hold falling away from you completely, because even if he didn’t understand what was happening (you’d seemed quite content with the direction of things), he could at the very least follow instructions. Which was fortunate, because not ten seconds later your door was thrown open as one of his scrawnier minions rushed in.

“You _are_ getting good,” Crowley muttered, which made you smile where you still leaned against your table, and then he turned to the vile interruption. “What have I told you Neanderthals about knocking?”

For once, his target was too distraught to offer an apology. “Your majesty, we tracked down Stefan’s cache of souls, but they are highly unstable. If they go off, the resulting explosion could wipe out hell entirely!”

“So what you’re saying is none of you lot is capable of diffusing one little bomb?”

“Yes, sire.” Once again, apparently the demon found the situation too dire to attempt any excuse. Which, on some level, Crowley could respect. Occasionally all the simpering did grate on one’s nerves.

“Fine. I’m on my way, you bunch of useless, squalling newborns.” He looked to you and quite firmly assured, “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

You merely inclined your head, but he hoped the other demon in the room was in too much of a tizzy to notice the rather un-businesslike look in your eyes. Then, knowing the sooner he took care of the problem the sooner he could make good on his declaration, he took himself off to hell.

Meanwhile, you enjoyed one slow, deep breath to reset yourself. Something in your periphery caught your attention, and you turned to find the canvas you’d painted a few weeks back, though now the swirling smears of gray were no longer the entirety of the image. You had a vague memory of waking up during the night to add something to it before stumbling in the dark to bathroom and then back to bed, but the whole thing had predictably slipped your mind until now.

You made your way over to examine the addition, a splotch of red in the very center, the single spot of color becoming the anchor in the midst of the storm. Or, perhaps, the focus of it. ‘Which one are you?’ you wondered as you gently skirted a finger around its edge, careful not to disturb the new paint. ‘And are you the victim or the cause?’


	7. And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Crowley should have been enjoying this. And he was. Of course he was. The bed he provided for you was comfortable, and so were you. He could feel you pressed all along his side, fitted firmly against him as your delicate fingers drew meaningless patterns on his chest. This was as close to heaven as he’d ever be allowed, these quiet moments of you half-dozing, secured by his arm around your back and his hand on the smooth skin of your hip. And yet…

And yet.

He barely caught your words as you mumbled out what sounded like an address, and even so he made sure to ask, “What’s that?”

You repeated yourself and then added, “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

He paused, tilted his head so he could see more of your face. “That’s quite impressive, darling.”

You sighed and stretched out your fingers so that your whole hand pressed into his skin with delicious warmth. “You were focused, and I’m in a heightened state of awareness. It’s a powerful combination.”

“We must work on your pillow talk.”

He cursed his flippant tone when you pushed away to prop yourself up on your elbow, but you didn’t appear upset. Still, the cool air that now seeped into the space where your body once lay was regrettable. “Why are you looking for this woman?”

He let out a great gust of air and rubbed a hand down his face. “She’s the leader of the Grand Coven. My mother has been nattering on about her for weeks, and I’m considering presenting her as a gift. Perhaps that would buy me some peace for a time.” Your eyes dropped, and he immediately noticed the shift in you. “What?”

“I don’t know how I feel about serving someone up like that.”

“She’s a witch, love.” He rolled to his side to face you and reached for your hand where it fiddled with the sheet. “She’s hardly your typical innocent sacrificial lamb.”

You didn’t reply or raise your gaze, and he could still feel your fingers shifting beneath his, so he wrapped his hand fully round yours. “My mother has been forbidden to practice her magic freely for centuries. Consider how you feel when your own abilities are inaccessible.”

After another few seconds of hesitation, you nodded and laid back down, tucking both arms up under your pillow with a poorly concealed yawn. Unperturbed, he ran his hand over the shape of your body, hidden beneath blankets, feeling a bit of his unease quiet once more. Contentedly, he watched his fingers travel back up again, over your shoulder and into your wild hair, and there he found your eyes carefully focused on his face. He smiled, smoothed your hair back, and said, “How is it that after being locked away here, surrounded by such ugliness, you’ve somehow managed to become even more beautiful?”

“I suppose the contrast works in my favor.”

“Darling, everything works in your favor.” He leaned down to kiss you, felt the breath of your pleased sigh brush across his face, followed soon by your fingers, still warm, running over roughness of his beard. He groaned, from deep in his chest, and murmured against your lips, “I should go.”

“Okay,” you agreed, but your hand had moved over his ear and into his own hair, an almost imperceptible urging to bring him forward again, which he gave into easily.

“No, no, I can’t,” he broke away again, farther than before, and opened his eyes to see something that might have been humor in yours, almost making him concede completely. “No, I have… I have things to see to.”

“Okay,” you repeated, but this time withdrew and rolled to your back, stretching both arms over your head and creating a whole new terrain beneath the blankets. He made an embarrassing noise in far recesses of his throat, but you caught his hand before it could wander and gave him a pointed look.

“Sometimes I wish you didn’t so fully support my more responsible urges.” He raised your fingers to his lips and then dragged his unwilling self from the comfort of your bed to grab his robe from a nearby chair. He turned to find you watching him, fingers drawing those achingly familiar patterns on the comforter now. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to remain right here until I return?”

“Lounge around in bed, awaiting a king? Decadent.”

He leaned over, hands dipping into the soft mattress as he allowed himself one last kiss. “I think there may be some witchcraft in you yet.”

You gave him a final, short, smacking peck then snuggled back under the covers. “I think you should at least make Rowena fix the two-faced demon before you give her the witch.”

“What’s this now? Compassion for a demon?”

You made a short noise of denial, rolled to your stomach, and spoke into your pillow. “His original face was unfortunate enough.”


End file.
